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Non-communicable diseases account for an increasing part of total mortality in Europe; strategies on how to prevent this development are needed, taking into account the demographic development and the pressure on health care budgets in the midst of economic crisis. One concept to counteract this development is increasing physical activity through the promotion and support of active mobility in daily life of individuals.
The project PASTA will be implemented to identify and understand established and innovative approaches for increasing physical activity and decreasing sedentary behaviour through active mobility. To reach these goals a review of active mobility and good practices in different areas will be implemented, a longitudinal study to identify and understand correlates of active mobility, physical activity and associated injury risk will be conducted, and an integrated tool for Health Impact Assessment will be developed. Through the integration of stakeholders from different areas (e.g. health, transport planning, urban planning) and broad dissemination of the results, the impacts of PASTA will be maximised.
Non-communicable diseases (cardiovascular and respiratory diseases, cancer and diabetes) account for some 86% of total mortality in Europe, and an estimated impact of up to 7% on a country's GDP. With ageing populations and increasing pressure on health care budgets in the midst of economic crisis, there is a need for urgent action in primary prevention and population interventions. The onset of chronic conditions is heavily influenced by risk factors such as lack of physical activity and unhealthy diet, which in turn are strongly dependent on the environments and settings in which people live, move, work, study, eat, socialize and enjoy leisure time. Increasing physical activity is one of the key approaches to address non-communicable diseases: only one third of the European population is estimated to meet the minimum recommended levels of physical activity, which for adults correspond to at least 150 minutes of moderate-intensity aerobic physical activity throughout the week.
In the face of myriad challenges, increasing physical activity through traditional approaches such as public health advocacy, sports and leisure time physical activity alone, has shown not to be sufficient not be sufficient. But integrating physical activity into daily life as routine behaviour through the promotion of active mobility can be a strategy to overcome this problem. Active mobility can contribute considerably to total physical activity and result in significant positive health effects. Empowering individuals to engage in active life styles will require empowering policy makers, health professionals and planners with the knowledge and tools to create the environments in which individuals can easily take up healthy behaviours.
The aim of the PASTA project is the systematic development and application of new strategies, concepts and models addressing the needs of the promotion of active mobility, thereby linking diverse areas as urban and transport planning, empirical epidemiological research, health and economic impact assessment and practice and policy relevant dissemination of good practices.
Further goals of PASTA are the identification and better understanding of established and innovative approaches for increasing physical activity and decreasing sedentary behaviour through active mobility, through:
Within the PASTA project an enhanced WHO Health Economic Assessment Tool for walking and cycling (HEAT) will be developed and applied, using the vast experience of the PASTA consortium on HIA. The simple online tool will allow transport planners to weigh benefits and risks as well as costs and benefits against each other and to overcome concerns related to potential risks of AM for health.
Furthermore, a compendium of best practices will be developed on the base of the project results. This document will provide recommendations on how to integrate public health aspects in urban planning and Sustainable Urban Mobility Plans (SUMPs), how to capitalise on the health benefits of active mobility, and how to promote active mobility in user-friendly format.
To maximise the impact of PASTA several policy and practice relevant products and dissemination activities for widespread communication will be developed and applied. These will address especially decision makers, public authorities, practitioners, researchers, businesses, civil society organizations and end users. Diverse materials will provide good practices guidance of active mobility promotion covering several active mobility-related domains such as decision making, transport planning and health promotion, infrastructure and campaigns, data collection and evaluation, as well as communication and education.


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|Publication number
|Publication type
|Application number
|Publication date
|Feb 10, 1981
|Filing date
|Nov 13, 1979
|Priority date
|Nov 13, 1979
|Publication number
|Peter Tutak, Don Burk
|Original Assignee
|Don Burk, Peter Tutak
|Export Citation
|BiBTeX, EndNote, RefMan
|Patent Citations (6), Referenced by (35), Classifications (24)
|External Links: USPTO, USPTO Assignment, Espacenet
This invention has to do with heat exchanger or condenser type vessels and is especially concerned with air-to-air and air-to-refrigerant condensers that separate water and other pollutants from air so as to produce dry compressed air as a final product.
Currently, however, heat exchangers on the market comprise the type that have conduit means with heat exchanger fins extending transversely of the conduit means. The heat exchanger fins surround the conduit means and form a square envelope when viewed from an end view. The heat exchanger fins and conduit means are housed in an elongated rectangular housing with the ends of the conduit means sealed with the rectangular box so as to form a sealed condenser heat exchanger unit between an air-to-air mixture or an air-to-refrigerant means.
While use of the above-mentioned type of heat-exchanger condenser type of device may produce satisfactory results it is believed that a less costly method of construction can be achieved and also produce a more efficient separation of the water and other pollutants from a vaporous mixture.
According to the present invention a heat exchanger type condenser is disclosed for separating water and other pollutants from a vaporous mixture such as air and water, or air, oil and water. The condenser comprises a cylindrical housing that has opposing ends with an inlet and outlet means located each near one end of the cylindrical housing. The housing has a conduit means that extends from one end to the other end of the housing, the conduit having a sealed entry and exit means from the housing. Surrounding the conduit means are heat exchanger fins that extend transversely of the conduit means and reach from the conduit means outwardly toward the inside diameter of said housing. Preferably the envelope or end view projection of the heat exchanger is a rectangular or square whose diagonal approximates a dimension somewhat less than the inside diameter of the housing.
Baffles are located on opposite sides of the heat exchanger fins in the housing so as to direct a vaporous mixture alternately from one side to the other of the fins as the mixture is moved from the inlet means of the housing to the outlet means of the housing.
A longitudinally extending plate means is located below the heat exchange means is the housing so as to create a substantially separate lowermost compartment along the bottom of the housing.
Perforations are formed in the plate means that communicate the lowermost compartment of the housing with the rest of the housing and a drain is provided beneath said plate means.
The baffles used are preferably made so that in a plan view one side will be curved so as to follow the inside curvature of the housing and the other side will define a chord of that curvature.
Top and bottom baffle guides are preferably used to hold the baffles in place. The top baffle guide comprises a longitudinally extending plate above the heat exchanger fins that has notches formed along its lateral edges for mating with the baffles. The bottom baffle guide may be a plate means with notches also formed along its lateral edges for mating with the baffles.
On heat exchanger type condensers where the conduit means entry and exit means extends through a plate member it is preferable that rather than sealing the conduit means on the plate member by brazing that an O'ring seal be used in conjunction with the conduit and plate.
This invention also contemplates a method of construction of the above described heat exchanger type condenser. The method comprises the steps of selecting a conduit means with heat exchanger fins surrounding the conduit means that are substantially rectangular when viewed from an end view.
The conduit means are then surrounded with baffles on opposite sides of the heat exchanger fins and baffle guide means holding the baffle in place, the baffles and baffle guide means so surround the conduit means and fins so that the entire assembly projects a circular envelope when viewed from an end view.
The above assembly is then slideably placed in a cylindrical housing having an inside diameter substantially equal to the circular project end of the assemblies end view.
The entry and exit means of the conduit are then sealed from communication with the inside of the housing and the opposing ends of the cylindrical housing are closed so as to seal the inside of the housing from the surrounding atmosphere. Inlet and outlet means are provided that communicate with the inside of the housing.
Accordingly, it is an object of the present invention to provide a more efficient heat-exchanger type condenser.
It is a further object of the present invention to provide a less expensive type of heat-exchanger condenser than that which is currently used.
It is a further object of the present invention to provide a more efficient, easier to construct, and less expensive heat exchanger type device by utilizing materials that are staples in the marketplace.
FIG. 1 is a plan view of a cut-away of a combination of the heat exchanger type condenser according to the present invention.
FIG. 2 is an exploded view of a heat exchanger type condenser according to the present invention.
FIG. 3 is a bottom baffle guide according to the present invention.
FIG. 4 is an end view of the bottom baffle guide according to the present invention.
FIG. 5 is a view of an end seal plate according to the present invention.
FIG. 6 is a section view of FIG. 5 taken along the line VI--VI in FIG. 5.
FIG. 7 is a plan view of a baffle according to the present invention.
FIG. 8 is an end view of the assembly of the baffles, baffle guides, conduit means and heat exchanger fins according to the present invention.
What is shown in FIG. 1 are two heat exchanger type condenser units 10 and 20 that cooperate with one another to produce a final product of dried compressed air. Compressed air from a compresser is introduced through an inlet means 12 into the condenser 10 and circulates as is shown by the arrow 14. The air coming from the compresser is hot, moist and customarily has some oil contamination from the compresser itself. The air circulates around the conduit means 16 and alternately from side to side of the condenser 10 being guided by baffles 18. The air having been alternately circulated from side to side along arrow 14 finally passes through an outlet means 22 on the condenser 10 and is transferred to a second condenser 20 having an inlet means 24. The condenser 20 has a conduit means 26 which is similar to the conduit means 16 except that on the condenser unit 20 there is only a single entry 28 and a single exit 30 for the conduit means. The conduit means 16 in the condenser unit 10 has multiple tubes each having their own inlets 32 and exit means 24. Compressed air that has undergone somewhat of a cooling by passing through the condenser unit 10 is now passed down through the inlet 24. Circulating through the conduit means 26 can be a refrigerant that is cycled between a reservior (not shown) and up through the conduit means 26. As the air passes alternately again from side to side on the condenser unit 20, guided by baffles 36, further water and pollutants are condensed out and the air is transferred through outlet means 38 up to the entry means 32 of the conduit 16. The mixture of vapor as it now passes from the entry means 32 to the exit means 34 helps to pre-cool compressed air coming from the compresser and is directed downstream of conduit means 16 to be stored as a final dry compressed air product. An exploded view of the condenser unit according to the present invention can be seen in FIG. 2 and comprises a cylindrical housing 40 having an inlet means 42 and outlet means 44. The inlet means 42, of course, corresponds with the inlet means 12 of condenser 10 and inlet means 24 of condenser 20. The outlet means 44, of course, corresponds to the outlet means 22 of condenser 10 of the outlet means 38 of condenser 20. It should be understood that in describing FIG. 2 all of the elements are the same or similar to the elements that are mentioned in the condenser 10 and 20 above with the sole difference being that the condenser 10 has multiple individual conduit tubes extending therethrough whereas the condenser 20 has only a single continuous conduit tube with a single entry 28 and single exit 30. Otherwise the following description should be understood to apply to either one of the condensers 10 or 20 mentioned above. Referring now to FIG. 2 the cylindrical housing 42 has a closed end 46 preferably comprising a plate welded to the end of cylindrical housing 40. Located in the inside diameter of the cylindrical housing 40 is a first end seal plate 48, this end seal plate 48 being shown as 48 in 51 in both condensers 10 and 20. The seal plate 48, of course, meets with the conduit means 50 that extends from one towards the other end of cylindrical housing 40 and is surrounded by heat exchanger fins 52 that extend transversely to the longitudinal direction of the conduit means preferably at right angles thereto. The heat exchanger fins preferably being thin metal sheets preferably aluminum and suitably spaced along the length of the conduit means. The heat exchanger fins 52 preferably are rectangular and when viewed in an end view, project a rectangular envelope. Surrounding this rectangular envelope are baffles 54 and top baffle guide 56 and a plate means or lower baffle guide 58 that also extend along the length of cylindrical housing 40. The baffles being spaced in a staggered manner along opposite sides so as to alternately direct the air from one side to the other as it goes from one longitudinal end to the other of the cylindrical housing 40. Again a seal plate 48 is shown on the other end of the conduit means so as to seal the inside of the conduit means from the cavity of the cylindrical housing 40. An end plate 60 fits over the end 62 of the cylindrical housing 40 and is preferably welded thereon. The lower baffle guide 58 as can be seen in the FIG. 2 is a rectangular member having perforations 62 formed in the plate. Near the one end the guide 58 has rectangular perforations 64 formed therein. The plate 58 has legs 66 that mate with the inside diameter of the cylindrical housing 40 so as to provide a compartment that is beneath the bottom baffle plate into which the condensed pollutants and water will drain. The cylindrical housing has in the compartment beneath the lower baffle guide 58 a trap drain. When enough water and pollutants collect a valve will float and allow the pollutants and water to exit. As soon as the water and pollutants have exited the pressure within the housing will force the valve to close the trap to prevent any pressure leak from the vessel. Such pressure traps are common within the trade and are designated as 68. Shown in FIG. 3 is a plan view of the lower baffle plate 58 according to the present invention. Having notches 70 formed there along to mate with similar notches 70 formed in the top baffle guide 56 shown in 52. The notches 70 serve to hold the baffles 54 in place while the perforations in the lower baffle guide 58 serve to allow the water of the pollutants to drain to a compartment below the lower baffle guide 58. It is believed that in this manner that a more efficient condensing operation will take place because the air that has allowed water to condense out will no longer be exposed to the condensate and may thereafter allow more condensate to come out of the air. Along the end of the baffle plate FIG. 58 are the elongated rectangular notches 64 that are placed therein so as to insure the removal of all condensate from the top side of plate 58. It has been preferable that the perforations in plate 58 form approximately six plus or minus four percent of the total surface area of the plate. FIG. 4 is again an end view of the plate 58 showing that at each end of the plate there is a leg 72 whose bottom has the same curvature as the inside diameter of the cylindrical vessel 40. Legs 72 are on each end of the baffle guide 58 and form the separate compartment through which the condenser is drained. FIG. 5 shows a typical seal plate 48 through which the conduit means 50 may extend. These plates 48 have perforations 72 through which the conduit means 50 pass. Referring to FIG. 6 it is preferable that on the pressure side of the conduit conical champher are formed so that the O'rings 76 on the conduit means 50 have a place to seal. The seal plate 48 may have a braced connection between the conduit means 50 and sealed plate 48, however, it is preferable that an O'ring on the conduit is used letting the differential pressure between one side of the seal plate 48 and the other hold the O'ring in place. What is shown in FIG. 7 is the baffle plate 54 having two sides, one side 80 that assumes the inside diameter configuration of the cylindrical vessel 40. The other side 82 of baffle plate 54 is a chord of that same inside diameter. Shown in FIG. 8 is an end view of the sub assembly of the heat exchanger fins having a conduit means therein and the baffles 54 along with the lower most baffle guide 15 and the uppermost baffle guide 56. Referring back to the bottom baffle guide 58 the perforations 62 are in effect self cleaning due to the pressure drop through the vessel. For this reason the perforation will operate even though temporarily being clogged by the various pollutants that are condensed out of the vaporous mixture.
|Cited Patent
|Filing date
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|May 31, 1917
|Apr 12, 1921
|Process Company
|Apparatus for treating hydrocarbons
|Apr 13, 1944
|Jan 8, 1946
|Westinghouse Electric Corp
|Heat exchange apparatus
|Jul 21, 1953
|Jul 10, 1956
|American Radiator & Standard
|Moisture separator
|Feb 8, 1956
|Apr 29, 1958
|Cleaver Brocks Company
|Method of manufacturing a compartmented fluid vessel
|Dec 19, 1975
|Sep 20, 1977
|Borg-Warner Corporation
|Finned tube bundle heat exchanger
|Jun 8, 1976
|Jan 30, 1979
|Hitachi, Ltd.
|Feedwater heater
|Citing Patent
|Filing date
|Publication date
|May 6, 1986
|Sep 1, 1987
|Wilkerson Corporation
|Refrigerated gas separation apparatus
|Nov 26, 1986
|Feb 23, 1988
|Kombinat "Korabostroene"
|Vacuum condensor with condensate trap
|Jan 25, 1993
|Jan 4, 1994
|Ingersoll-Rand Company
|Apparatus for removing moisture from a hot compressed gas
|Jun 1, 1992
|Apr 5, 1994
|Autokuhler Gmbh & Co. Kg.
|Heat exchanger device for refrigeration driers in compressed-air installations and tube/plate heat exchangers for use in the latter
|Aug 2, 1993
|May 16, 1995
|Calsonic International, Inc.
|Evaporator with an interchangeable baffling system
|Apr 16, 1997
|Sep 7, 1999
|Gardner Denver Machinery, Inc.
|Rotary screw air compressor having a separator and a cooler fan assembly
|Sep 23, 1997
|Feb 8, 2000
|Gardner Denver Machinery, Inc.
|Vertical arrangement of a dual heat exchanger/fan assembly
|Jun 15, 1999
|Apr 24, 2001
|Gardner Denver, Inc.
|Rotary-screw air compressor having a separator and a cooler fan assembly
|Jul 15, 2003
|Sep 27, 2005
|Idalex Technologies, Inc.
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|Mar 14, 2005
|Apr 18, 2006
|Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Ltd.
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|Feb 6, 2007
|Dana Canada Corporation
|Fuel conversion reactor
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|May 22, 2007
|Dana Canada Corporation
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|Sep 11, 2007
|T.Rad Co., Ltd.
|Heat exchanger
|Feb 5, 2013
|King Fahd University Of Petroleum And Minerals
|Shell and tube heat exchanger
|Oct 23, 2001
|Apr 25, 2002
|Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, Ltd.
|Condenser for refrigerating machine
|May 22, 2003
|Jul 1, 2004
|Xiaoyang Rong
|Fuel conversion reactor
|Jul 15, 2003
|Mar 17, 2005
|Maisotsenko Valeriy Stepanovich
|Evaporative duplex counterheat exchanger
|Sep 30, 2004
|May 26, 2005
|Lin Cheng
|Complex flow-path heat exchanger having U-shaped tube and cantilever combined coil
|Mar 14, 2005
|Jul 14, 2005
|Mitsubishi Heavy Industries Ltd.
|Condenser for refrigerating machine
|Dec 31, 2003
|Mar 9, 2006
|Xiaoyang Rong
|Fuel conversion reactor
|Jul 23, 2003
|May 18, 2006
|Shuko Shincho
|Heat exchanger
|Feb 1, 2005
|Aug 3, 2006
|Ming Kun Chien
|Aug 9, 2007
|Jan 31, 2008
|Fijas David F
|Compressed Air Aftercooler With Integral Moisture Separator
|Dec 15, 2005
|Oct 23, 2008
|Fijas David F
|Compressed Air Aftercooler With Integral Moisture Separator
|Jun 27, 2007
|Jan 1, 2009
|Al-Hadhrami Luai M
|Shell and tube heat exchanger
|Aug 20, 2008
|Feb 26, 2009
|Wolverine Tube, Inc.
|Heat Exchanger with Sloped Baffles
|Nov 16, 2012
|Oct 16, 2014
|Vahterus Oy
|Plate heat exchanger and method for manufacturing of a plate heat exchanger
|May 27, 1992
|Jan 7, 1993
|Heat exchange apparatus for dryer by refrigeration in compressed air plants and tubes/plates heat exchanger for this use
|Jan 11, 1994
|Jul 20, 1994
|SAPIO PRODUZIONE IDROGENO OSSIGENO S.r.L.
|System for recovering solvents or solvent mixtures dissolved in air or in an inert gas
|May 29, 1998
|Jul 5, 2000
|American Precision Industries Inc
|Precooler/chiller/reheater heat exchanger for air dryers
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|Jun 30, 2004
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|Jun 15, 2005
|Toyo Radiator Co., Ltd.
|Heat exchanger
|Dec 6, 1993
|Jun 23, 1994
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|Dec 15, 2005
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|U.S. Classification
|International Classification
|Cooperative Classification
|European Classification


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(This story first ran at PressConnects.com) BALTIMORE — At 26 years old, UFC light-heavyweight champion Jon Jones admits it is difficult even for him to realize he could soon be considered the best fighter in the history of mixed martial arts. But it's a reality (…)
Daniel Cormier might have been robbed of his opportunity to test himself against Jon Jones, but he still beat a fighter with a case to be considered the greatest of all time at UFC 200. The light hea read news >>
World Series of Fighting announced on Thursday that it has signed UFC and Bellator veteran Paul Bradley. read news >>
Heavyweight Oli Thompson knows he faces a big challenge at Bellator 158 in London on July 15 when he faces UFC veteran Matt Mitrione at the O2 Arena. read news >>
UFC 201 has gone from the opportunity of his career for Wilson Reis to one of the riskiest fights of his career. read news >>
After surviving an armed robbery attempt, Valentina Shevchenko is focused on the Octagon and her fight with Holly Holm on July 23, 2016. read news >>
Cris "Cyborg" Justino believes she has earned the right to a UFC featherweight division, calls for equal opportunity for women to compete in the Octagon. read news >>


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Definition of Colorado Springs in English:
Colorado Springs
A city in central Colorado, south of Denver, at the foot of the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains, home to the US Air Force Academy; population 380,307 (est. 2008).
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Rent Molecular Biology 4th edition today, or search our site for other textbooks by Burton E. Tropp. Every textbook comes with a 21-day "Any Reason" guarantee. Published by Jones & Bartlett.
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Gwin 3:04:07
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45 mins to Santa Cruz, 7 mins to Carlmont, 20 mins to Skeggs. Prefer Santa Cruz, so up and over 17 every weekend. Worth it. Spring/summer weekday rides post work are great at Skeggs.
Added a comment about slideshow 2016 Andes Pacifico Day 1 Report and Results 2/14/2016 1:20 PM
What happened to the rest of the days for coverage?
This slideshow has 4 comments.


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Rent The Entrepreneurial Imperative 1st edition today, or search our site for other textbooks by Carl J. Schramm. Every textbook comes with a 21-day "Any Reason" guarantee. Published by Collins.
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Member Since: March 04, 2013
[6] June 30, 2016 at 2:48pm
You're single cell brain is firing on all cylinders today!
In reply to Deleted User's comment on the story 'Inconceivable': Judge Napolitano Outlines Why Attorney General's Private Meeting With Clinton Is a Big Deal
[-1] June 30, 2016 at 3:38pm
[2] June 22, 2016 at 9:53am
That depends on who writes the history…
[1] June 22, 2016 at 9:51am
"She's ******* brilliant."
Obviously, your single celled brain is firing on all cylinders today.
[47] June 20, 2016 at 4:26pm
You're right. Allah is not the same God of the bible, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
In reply to TheRemedy's comment on the story Obama Admin. Releases Unredacted Transcript of Orlando Terrorist's 911 Call After Intense Backlash
[-2] June 21, 2016 at 10:21am
ArribaPosts responded:
[2] June 17, 2016 at 2:36pm
Nothing hotter than a woman that knows how to shoot!
In reply to FLHXSE2012's comment on the story NY Times Reports Astonishing AR-15 Claim — Then Olympian Shooter Sets Record Straight
June 17, 2016 at 5:10pm
nobamamustgo responded:
[9] June 17, 2016 at 2:36pm
Instead of gun free zones, we need liberal free zones.
In reply to the story NY Times Reports Astonishing AR-15 Claim — Then Olympian Shooter Sets Record Straight
[7] June 17, 2016 at 2:33pm
Yep, thats the strategy!
[2] June 17, 2016 at 2:30pm
I see your single celled brain is firing on all cylinders today!
In reply to rfycom's comment on the story NY Times Reports Astonishing AR-15 Claim — Then Olympian Shooter Sets Record Straight
[1] February 29, 2016 at 5:07pm
Very cobalt is incapable of asking any logical questions, he is a "useful idiot".
[3] February 29, 2016 at 5:06pm
Democrats are for socialism. Socialism is for the people, not the socialist. VeryCobalt, you are what Vladimir Lenin called "useful idiots".
[4] February 17, 2016 at 3:43pm
your one functioning brain cell is screwed up today. One shot of tequila will take care of that.
In reply to LibertarianSocialist's comment on the story Obama to Skip Justice Scalia's Funeral
[1] February 17, 2016 at 3:40pm
Doesn't want to change his tee time…
In reply to the story Obama to Skip Justice Scalia's Funeral
[5] February 17, 2016 at 11:00am
per the constitution, the president does NOT have a right to nominate, rather has the power to make a nomination, subject to advice and consent of the senate.
Your single celled brain is not working too well this morning…
In reply to conservativeslayer's comment on the story Watch How Obama Responds When Reporter Reminds Him That He Tried to Filibuster Alito in 2006 (UPDATE: Obama 'Regrets' Filibuster)
[-2] February 17, 2016 at 7:22pm
conservativeslayer responded:
[1] February 8, 2016 at 3:08pm
NFL lives matter! 'nuff said.
In reply to the story NFL Legend Deion Sanders Has Some Tough Words for Cam Newton After QB's Post-Super Bowl Press Conference Tantrum
[4] February 8, 2016 at 3:30pm
dealer responded:
[2] February 4, 2016 at 2:37pm
Hillary's (and NBC's) argument is being set up to be: everybody else did it so that makes it ok. Nothing there, there…
If they really did it, indict them too!
In reply to the story Report: Colin Powell and Aides to Condoleezza Rice Also Had 'Confidential' and 'Secret' Info on Personal Email
[1] February 4, 2016 at 2:46pm
anothersheepdog responded:
February 3, 2016 at 4:48pm
So what? Obama is.
February 3, 2016 at 4:48pm
OK, now how about doing one of Mohammed?
[1] February 3, 2016 at 4:43pm
No, he didn't forget his meds, it's just that Prozac requires more than one brain cell to be effective.
[1] February 3, 2016 at 4:13pm
Zapp's single celled brain is not working so well today, give him a break…
In reply to progressiveslayer's comment on the story Blaze Poll: Should Women Be Required to Register for the Draft?
[2] February 2, 2016 at 11:57am
Correct, not consecutive but mathematically they are independent events, so the result is the same in terms of probability. Flip a fair coin six times, or flip six fair coins one time, probability that they all come up the same (either all heads or all tails) is still 1/64.
In reply to Apeon's comment on the story Hillary Clinton Has The Most Statistically Improbable Coin-Toss Luck Ever
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The Motley Fool Discussion Boards
|Previous Page
Investing/Strategies / Retirement Investing
|Subject: Re: Strategy comparison S&P500 vs. IUL
|Date: 4/3/2013 7:34 PM
|Author: Dwdonhoff
|Number: 71686 of 80268
If you are "long" your home, and you buy homeowners insurance, you are placing a hedge.
Whaaat???? This makes no sense.
A Beginner's Guide To Hedging
The best way to understand hedging is to think of it as insurance. When people decide to hedge, they are insuring themselves against a negative event.
Yep... Investopedia... that's a pretty obscure & oddball reference source ;~)
How did a house and homeowners insurance get dragged into this thread, anyway. We are talking about investments, not homes.
A retirement account is a 'financial home' equivalent. It is relied upon by most folks, usually without alternative options, for their survival.
Dave, you keep using loaded words & phraseology. You keep calling a long position "naked". No normal investors term it that way.
I guess it depends on your idea of "normal." I learned market finance from professional traders where risk management is everything, and undercapitalized drawdowns kill more accounts than anything else. Not saying that's superior, or normal... but that's the world I know.
A long is a long. The only customary use of "naked" in investment parlance is a "naked short" position. And a naked short is pretty well known to be a high-risk posi


text:
Season 9, Episode 9 Wings over Buffalo
First Aired: December 20, 1996
Luther's love of chicken wings saddles the Breakers with a case of food poisoning on the eve of a big game. Chris Berman and Tom Jackson have cameos. Doc: Richard Penn. Buffalo Billy: Blake Clark. Luther: Jerry Van Dyke.
Guest Cast
Blake Clark Blake Clark Buffalo Billy
Cast & Details See all »
- Rating: TV-PG
- Premise: A sturdy sitcom about brash football coach Hayden Fox, who began with the Minnesota State Screaming Eagles when the series kicked off in 1989 and switched to the professional Orlando Breakers in '95. Hayden also made the leap to marriage in that time, sayi… (more)
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Should you be lucky enough to find yourself on the grounds at this year's U.S. Open, or any golf tournament, here what you're guaranteed to see, if our hundreds of hours of people-watching experience at major golf tournaments are any indication.
2. The Excitable Dad
He works 9 to 5 in a middle management job, takes out the garbage every night without fail, and drives a Kia Sorrento. Life isn't too shabby for the Excitable Dad, but he craves more. He probably scored some tickets to the tournament this weekend for Father's Day and he's JACKED UP about it. Give him two Michelob Ultras and a $38 dollar souvenir hat and watch the magic unfold.
3. The Little Rickies
Ricky Fowler has yet to win a major or really come into his own as a top American golfer, but his flatbrim wearin', shaggy-haired antics have wormed their way into the hearts of children everywhere. Every tournament now is littered with 'Little Rickies' just dying for a glimpse of their burnt orange hero. Be nice to them.
4. The Jingoists
Aggressively patriotic. Travel in packs. Often European. Often very intoxicated. Often wayyy more fun than American fans. Often in better shape. Often incredibly friendly. Great at bird calls.
5. Here's one in action after Webb Simpson's 2012 US Open win:
See what I mean about the bird calls!
6. The Fathers and Sons
Dads and kids. Good, honest American men teaching their wee children about a game they can play and love for the rest of their lives. Like Field of Dreams but with Phil Mickelson lurking somewhere nearby.
7. The Overserved Hawaiian Shirt Guy
You may not see this guy, but you'll probably hear his scream echo through the fairways around 4 p.m. as he's tazed by local law enforcement. Bushy sex offender mustache is optional (but highly encouraged).
8. The Guy Who Gets Rocked In The Face By A Stray Shot…
9. …And Is TOTALLY PSYCHED About It!
Messed up, I know. But it's common practice for a golfer to say "hey" to the injured spectator and give him a souvenir. Plus you most likely make it on TV (so long as you don't die), which is kind of nice. If you go to a lot of golf tournaments you'll slowly begin to develop this very strange desire to catch a Maxfli with your face.
10. The Assholes That Yell Right After The Tee Shot
Sure, it's a little funny. Sometimes. But for the most part this guy is a king-sized doofus, whose favorite TV show is just watching himself saying Family Guy quotes in the mirror shirtless. Main offender: Hawaiian shirt guy (see above) three beers before getting tazed.
11. The Underdressed Fan
You will see this human within 40 seconds of walking onto the course. Don't get me wrong, golf is an elitest sport that could stand to be taken down a peg or two when it comes to snobbery, but that doesn't mean you should wear a tank top, sweatpants, and Crocs (I mean, really, you shouldn't be wearing that anywhere.) If you've ever been to a tournament you'll know without me saying that this DEFINITELY applies to members of both sexes.
12. The PERFECTLY Dressed Fan
You'll know it immediately when you see them, but there's one at every tournament. Funny, without being too flashy. Practical, but not boring. Fashion meets function. A joy to behold. Buy this man/woman/child a beer. Especially if it's a child.
13. The Weird Periscope Crowd
Most often accompanied by a non-ironic fanny pack on someone 55 or older. Like most quirks of golf spectatorship, the periscope isn't exactly annoying, it's just really, really peculiar. Points if you shout a Hunt For Red October reference at them from across the course. Let them sing!
14. The Diehards
For all its joys, golf can be a real bitch to watch. Packed crowds, fickle weather, LOTS of walking. Seriously. MILES of walking. But no matter how bad it gets, this person just can't get enough. They'll be getting to the course when the gates open at 6 a.m. and you'll have to drag them off at dusk. They're any and every type of the people mentioned above and they're what make watching golf in person great. Just don't block their view of the green and you'll be just fine.
- The Democratic National Convention kicks off today and it's already off to a rocky start. Here's what you need to know 🇺🇸🔔
- Two people were killed and at least 16 others were injured in a shooting outside a nightclub in Fort Myers, Florida.
- Verizon is buying Yahoo's core business for about $5 billion, ending the web pioneer's run as an independent company.


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Classes and Interfaces documentation tool. XML based. Generates a HTML doc of each class/interface.


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Tim Richards
I'm a renegade.
I don't do the thing we all used to do in primary school......you know, putting my arms around my work so that the kiddie next door can't see what my answers are.
Share and comment everything I say.
Uncomfortable reading for most of you, I appreciate.
But then I don't still live with "mom" even though I'm in my 30's.
God bless you all.
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- Last seen Sep 9 '13 at 15:39
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Order Now
Asimov's Science Fiction
Login/Register My Account Contact Us
by Suzanne Palmer
Sky egg blue, a nest
of walls,
a floor of fissioning stone
cottage made for close company
lonely of but one.
* * *
Not that he really understands how the house floor works, given the odd impositions of the world surrounding him. It works, though; radiating warmth up through his feet as he paces, casting furtive glances back at the replica of an ancient machine where it sits upon a replica of an ancient desk, through which he has been trying to pull—tap tap—new words.
It's the first poem he hasn't crumpled up and tossed into the fireplace at the end of the vaulted room. The novelty of paper, of fire relentlessly marching from crisp edge to blackened ash, has consumed several salvageable scraps of work, but he's not here for scraps, for minute victories; he has come to be the flame, set his long-slumbering and cold imagination alight, and perhaps also to bury the embers of something else that never was meant to be.
The exhausting act of having crafted something that might not suck propels him past the desk, the textured matte black bulk of the Underwood, the thin flag of paper still standing his tiny effort up into the air. He needs to walk before he can judge: keep as is, keep going, fall into the limbo of tinkering, or smother now before he gets too attached.
The Project has thoughtfully provided him with boots and a walking stick propped by the door. He slips his feet into the boots and glances up at the large thermometer mounted on a turquoise porch post just outside the door. Turning, he checks the mechanical clock over the fireplace, then picks up the old-fashioned inkpen where it dangles on its string from the logbook by the door.
Day 7. 11:43. 12C, he writes on the next empty line. Sunny. 1070 hPa. The task is not as onerous a condition of his residency as he'd feared.
He slips on his coat, notebook in pocket, and steps out the door. Pausing there, he marvels at the pure existential joy of going for a stroll on an alien world, and one that he has, effectively, entirely to himself. For someone who had lived much of his adult life in the cramped and crowded towers of Old New York, the rolling hills and wide skies of Ekye are a dream. As a poet floundering, rendered wordless by the stale dregs of his own substanceless life, it is an offer of resurrection, reincarnation.
The hills that nestle around the cottage are a deep green, covered in a thick tangled carpet of a grasslike creeper named popim-weed. A forest of blue and green umbah-trees lines the ridge, and a lazy river winds its way down below through a field of green, fuzzy boulders called mossums.
Be cautious outdoors above 20C, they'd said.
That had worried him, but they assured him he was in no direct danger. The landscape gets more active on warmer days, they'd explained. Keep your walking stick and watch your footing, and you'll be fine. Remember you're on an alien planet.
Oh, and if it gets above 30C, don't linger below a mossum field.
A thick stone wall curves along the hillside behind the cottage, and above that, mossums are scattered in the bright midday sun like enormous green pebbles tossed from the riverbed.
I walk with my eyes half-open,
the familiar and the unfamiliar
side by side, long-lost brothers
—the landscape of memory
tree and root and stone
succumb, uncomfortable,
to pattern recognition
but hold fast, immovable,
to lost particulars,
like and unlike.
The cottage has stockpiles of both paper and notebooks, the latter for recording observations, but he doesn't think it improper if he carries one for moments of his own inspiration. They know he is a writer, that he wanted the long solitude of the post, was willing (eager!) to live under the low-tech strictures of Ekye. Loneliness is less terrible to bear when alone.
During orientation, the Project had explained about the swarming creatures—nochers—attracted by strong electromagnetic fields, much as moths were to flame; it was why the main heat source for the house was embedded inside a two-meter-thick block of hardened polymer, why he had a typewriter instead of a voice-text composer, why he made tea in a pot swung on a hook into the fire on his hearth.
He had spent nearly the entire first twenty-two-hour day obsessively tapping at the Underwood's space bar, eyes closed, listening to the keys as if he was hearing the hidden music of a thousand writers long dead. Then, in a burst of enthusiastic excess, he'd jammed them all up in a pile and slunk away out onto the porch in the spring rain. He is embarrassed by how much time he spent trying to figure out how to reboot the typewriter before he gave up and gently pressed the keys back into their proper places with his fingers.
The sun is warm after several cloudy days, so he goes to the cottage's shed, opens the door, and contemplates the bicycle. He's been told it requires practice, has seen vid of people riding them, but not how they got on or off. After staring at its thin, silver frame for some time, standing beside it in different ways to see if some method of getting safely aboard might become apparent, he decides he'll walk.
He climbs up the rolling hills that surround his cottage and sits in the sun with his back against a mossum, then pulls out the notebook and doodles a sketch of the view. He was never more than a passable artist, but it is sufficient skill for his own satisfaction.
The cottage is not far from the coast. A herd of creatures is moving across a meadow between him and the bright blue line on the horizon. Like inchworms the size of horses, hairy and horned and bright hues of blue, together they move like their own undulating wave of strangeness. The Project told him their name, but he cannot recall it, and, letting his gaze unfocus while he tries to remember, he slips into a light doze.
It is the name—feffalons, as if everything here has been named by a fanciful child—and the sense of weight pressing against his back that rouse him. The day has grown warmer.
He stands, stretches, repockets his notebook, and can't find his pen. He pokes through the ground cover, looking for it.
The popim-weed is a strange texture. Ferny, almost feathery, the whorls of green spray in a spiral helix up the stem to a point, where a small round bulb grows. Flower buds? he wonders. The end of his pen protrudes from a dense patch of the weed, just at the edge of the mossum he was leaning on. He grabs the tip, pulls, and discovers it is stuck beneath the mossum.
Reaching out, he touches it. It is as he expects: a solid boulder with a thick coating of moss-like fuzz, warm where the sun has fallen on it, chilly where it has not. He presses harder and it yields slightly. He is able to pull his pen free, and hastily pockets it.
There is a flattened patch of weed uphill from the mossum.
He is unnerved that the mossum may have moved. He's a poet, after all, not a geologist or mossologist or xenobiowhateverist. Next time he will sit beside an umbah-tree or on the upslope side of the mossums, and if the day is warm enough, he will watch.
Not all rolling stones
gather, but are gathered by
impossible moss.
No, he doesn't like that. Trite, stupid. Writing haiku always makes him deeply self-conscious, as if failure has been predetermined before he even starts. He turns the little knob that advances the paper in satisfyingly analog increments until the offending bit of doggerel hangs over the back of the Underwood, out of sight.
There once was a poet named Davin,
Who'd found his own private heaven,
but the rocks, they rolled
as the feffalons strolled
—second thoughts, should he be a'havin'?
At least no one is looking over his shoulder, no one nearer than geostationary orbit to pass silent judgment. He yanks the paper free of the machine, crumples it up, and tucks it beneath the dead ashes of the morning's fire as a solemn promise for later.
One wall of the main room has bookshelves, and although the vast majority are a seemingly random assortment of static biography—Hypatia, Aaron Swartz, Mel Blanc (a desperate proxy crowd for some previous, lonely occupant?)—there are a few fiction books and a lone, hand-bound collection of watercolors. He can feel the texture of the paper, the way the paint buckled it slightly in places. It feels more real a presence than a dozen volumes of the stories of dead people.
The paintings are all dated within a few months of each other from the previous year. His predecessor, then. He wonders why she did not stay longer.
The second painting has been done from the cottage's front porch, the posts neatly framing the path down to the river, the small bridge that crosses it, and the low hillside beyond. He carries the book to the door and stands there, glancing down at the wash of vibrant color, up at the sunset-soaked landscape. The nearer stand of umbah-trees is taller now but accurately rendered, as is the flow and ebb of the land around it. The mossums on the hills, though, are mostly absent from the paper, and his own unhindered river instead shown choked with them.
Rocks rolling down . . . that he could process, if not find reason in. But up? Some unseen hand at work?
He closes the book and sets it on a small table by the door. The rest of his evening is spent idly thumbing through an impenetrably distant biography of Mary Anning, trying to dispel a quiet disorientation and the suspicion that he may be the unwitting target of a hoax.
In the end, only as he is drifting off to sleep in his bed do the sheer logistical and financial impracticalities of his various paranoias convince him that whatever is happening, however opaque to reason, is unlikely to be anything to do with him.
The stone shifts in its coat of moss
in the wakening sun,
considers and discards
millennia of geologic
and poetic common sense,
and goes for a roll.
The hill, for its part, is unsure
what the bold stone portends,
if it should protest
measured or stridenbtkjs
The keys are jammed again.
He hasn't yet adapted to the notion that he must compose tethered to the machine's needs, that creation is no longer the performance of a conductor to a rising orchestra of his own vision, but the precise and small monotonies of a technical transcriptionist. Frustrated, he sets down his half-drunk tea, leaving the chair and the broken, dangling disaster of a poem to go check on his other project.
He has found a roll of flexible sticky-tape and used it to hang a single sheet of paper beside each window that overlooks the mossum fields. On each, in a burst of morning diligence not usually his style, he has made a reference drawing of the locations of what should be fixed elements. Umbah-trees, hills and valleys, mossums of assorted sizes, and so forth. The drawings are a mockery of the fine watercolors that gave him the idea, but a solid reference. He has also used his pen to mark a tiny x on the floor about a meter and a half from the glass, which takes him several minutes to find. He hopes they'll escape the scrutiny of the Project, should they be looking for any petty (if well-intentioned) vandalisms during his stay.
Standing on the x, he studies his drawing, the scene out the window, then his drawing again. The thermometer at the door reads 15C. He is not certain, but it seems that the mossums have all shifted slightly further down the hill since his morning drawings, now several hours old.
He resolves to check again later. In the meantime, today is report day.
There is a logbook. He has already copied over into it each day's weather observations for the past four weeks, and adds the day's readings. The barometer has dropped, which he is learning means there could be rain. He has a window near the typewriter open, and a breeze is rifling through the corners of his poems, slowly sliding one toward the desk edge.
That reminds him that there is a mechanical device tucked up among the ceiling beams, a pen on a stick scribbling away tiny lines as the small windmill on the roof turns and spins in the wind. He drags a stool beneath its niche. Swapping out the paper is not as straightforward as the Project made it seem, but once he sees how it fits it is easily done.
Later, he turns to the survey the Project has provided him. Although ostensibly he is here as an exchange of needs—they need a reliable, intelligent observer who can function for extended periods in an isolated, low-tech environment and carry out occasional sampling and testing tasks, while he desires that self-same environment to try to reconnect with his creative self—part of the overhead of keeping him alive is making sure he isn't, to put it poetically, completely losing his marbles.
The survey is a series of mostly unobtrusive health questions, followed by a self-assessment of his mental well-being. Is he lonely? No more so here than where he came from. Is there anything he misses? Music. There is a space for questions/concerns about bodily matters, of which he has none, a supply checklist, and another blank space for items he would like. Binoculars, he writes in. He is fairly sure those can be made without electronics. More of this, he adds, and puts a small piece of the sticky-tape on the paper, drawing a line to it.
He picks up the weather log, wind-machine scribbles, and his survey, and then fetches a small, red metal tube from a cupboard. Opening a few more windows to let out the last lingering odors of bread he let burn in his distraction, he goes outside and walks up the steep hill behind the cottage.
There are a few clouds moving in, high pencil-line wisps that seem a precursor to most weather here. He hurries, feeling the pull in the backs of his calves and thighs, still unused to the exercise.
At the top there is a concrete circle with a metal pipe sticking out of it. He unlatches and removes the cap, trying to remember the sequence he went over ad nauseam one world too many ago. Anxiously he sets down his pile of papers and pipe and rummages in his coat, pulling out the instructions he had tucked into an inside pocket for just such a circumstance.
There are things he needs tucked inside the tube. As soon as he picks it up, his pile of papers is caught by the wind and takes flight down the hill. "No no no!" he cries and scrambles after them.
By the time he has caught the last, he's short of breath and more than a little irritated. Stomping back to the top of the hill, he stubs his toe on a small mossum half-buried in the popim-weed. He picks it up, intending to hurl it, but the solid weight of it in his hand gives him an idea.
Back at the launch site he uses the mossum to keep his papers from escaping again, and then empties out the contents of the red tube. A small black device, pinhole in one end, fits snugly onto the base of the tube. Once on, he is careful not to touch it further, despite assurances that it won't activate until it's in the launch pipe. He knows it will attract the nochers when it does.
There is a small bag with some mealy, oatmeal-like clumps in it that he spreads out on the ground several paces from the pipe. It will give the nocher swarm something to eat while he escapes back to the cottage.
Setting the mossum aside, he rolls the papers into a tight bundle and slides them down inside the tube. The last piece is the cap, which when inverted makes a pointed cone on the end. It makes the tube look like an ancient rocket, from back in the era before disc ships.
Everything is prepared. He can see the front now, a gray line on the horizon, the last bits of cobalt-blue sky fleeing ahead of the storm. He considers sitting atop the hill until the storm overtakes him, as if he were but a part of the landscape, but knows in his heart that it will only leave him damp, chilled, and in a fouler mood.
There's nothing else to do, so he slides the rocket into the pipe. It's been explained that there's a small, sharp needle in the base that will activate the cylinder, which will then launch the device. Putting both hands on the sides of the rocket, he bears down gently. There is a faint but clear click as it connects. He was told to immediately step away, but nowhere has anyone warned him how quickly the rocket would exit. Its progress is only markable by the bright column of smoke it paints up into the sky.
"Whoa," he says.
Somewhere high up, out of reach of the nochers, a drone will sense the coming rocket and intercept it, taking it to the Project station in orbit. He's still watching the thinning trail when he notices a strange humming, whistling sound in the wind.
He has imagined the nochers as bloated, one-eyed flying rats, but what emerges from the umbah-forest at first looks like mist, then resolves into whitish fluff, gigantic dandelion seed-tufts. They are converging and drifting up the hill.
As soon as you launch, go back to the cottage and stay indoors for at least an hour, the Project has told him.
He picks up the mossum from the cement, intending to throw it, but the cloud is picking up speed, so he drops it into his pocket and runs. Moving down the hill as fast as he can, he is terrified he's going to catch his foot on another mossum or in the popim-weed and pitch headfirst the rest of the way.
He makes it to the door safely, breathing so heavily his entire body is one giant, thudding heartbeat. He can no longer see the top of the hill for its seething mass of white. Inside, he closes the windows and gathers up all his papers where they have blown around the room, and sets them on the desk with the mossum atop to keep them in place.
He picks at the burnt loaf of bread, eating pieces absently until it is gone and the swarm is too.
Benign is in the eye of memory,
childhood and soft summer laughs—
I remember your hand in mine
as we wished on tiny seeds sailing
the careless breeze.
Now, where are we? Wishes forgotten
or remembered with jaded mockery—
for the innocence we endured
with impatient fortitude,
as we waited to grow up.
We have traded dreams for lives,
let go for a grounded world—
all now is always as it seems,
ambition moves us step by step,
and surety keeps us apart.
I have taken a chance, returning to the dream
where danger and delight inspire—
I slough off my own dearest shadows
only to wake in a new day,
still missing you.
The rain is a frenetic drumbeat on the cottage roof for more than a week. He likes the sound of it at night, drifting in and out of sleep, but by day he craves the missing sun, someone to talk to, something else to do beside stare at the mercurial Underwood and listen to the wind howl. Words are failing him, and it is all he can do to not spend the days curled up in the bed, feeling lost at the bottom of a well of desolate emptiness.
In the Blanc biography, he finds loose notes tucked inside by the watercolor artist. They are scribbled, incoherent, dated past the last of the paintings, and talk of ghosts stalking the hillsides. His nerves frayed by days indoors, he considers feeding the pages into the fire, but instead tucks them back inside the book and returns it to the highest shelf.
When at last the blue sky peeks out, he is startled to see something bright red, high up in the sky, growing larger: the parachute for the supply drop. In his haste he almost loses his balance pulling his boots on. Catching himself, he knocks over his mug of tea onto the floor. The mug doesn't break, but the tea spreads out in a long puddle.
It will wait. He races out after the parachute.
A medium-sized inflatable crate lands fairly close to the house, bouncing and rolling until it comes to rest against a pair of mossums. He lets the air out, then unzips the recessed openings until he can pull free the items within. There is more toilet paper, sunscreen, a smaller crate of food items, a padded case holding a pair of binoculars, a roll of thick sticky-tape, and a packet of papers.
It takes him a few trips to carry everything up to the porch, the ground soggy and slick from the rain. He packs the deflated crate and bundled parachute into the shed, eyeing again the unmet challenge of the bicycle, before going back to the house and taking off his mud-covered boots outside the door.
Inside, he stops, hand still on the doorframe.
His poems are scattered again, and the mossum he was using to hold them down has fallen and is lying in the center of the floor.
"Hello?" he calls. He feels silly, but also angry. As little as an hour ago he was feeling the desperate drain of solitude. Now he is furious at the idea that it might have been violated. "I know someone is here!"
He bends down to pick up the mossum in case he needs to defend himself. The mossum is wet, spongy.
The puddle of tea is gone.
Davin Arturo Gordon-Fauci, Resident Poet-Hermit of Ekye, starts to laugh.
When is a rock not a rock?
When it invites itself over to tea.
When is a fool not a fool?
When he slips off a life's lens
and at last learns to see.
He has put the mossum on the floor, and not far from it a small saucer of water. Rather than stare at it the whole day, he has turned his back to it as he sorts through the new papers. The windows are closed, the door latched, and, in what he has decided to ascribe to thoroughness rather than paranoia, he has made sure the cottage is indeed free of intruders. The idea of ghosts holds no allure beyond the merely symbolic.
There is a folded newssheet, a throwback still in use in some of the tech-averse colonies, and perhaps this is simply one of their editions; it is free of the more salacious stories so embarrassingly popular on Earth and many of the colony worlds. It's comforting to have this window into current events available, but he can't summon much interest. None of it is relevant, anyway, not here or now.
Mr. G-F, the enclosed note reads, We've included another wellness survey and a small tube. Our Soils division has requested, if you are able, that you send back a sample of the riverbed silt. Weather looks to be agreeable for the coming weeks in your location, with some significant warming over the next few days. We hope you are settled in and finding your stay conducive to your creative needs, and we look forward to hearing more about your impressions.
He flips through the newssheet a while longer, then abandons it in a stack of paper waiting for the evening's fire. The mossum on the floor has not moved. Maybe he is wrong? Going to the windows, he checks his drawings, and the difference is unmistakable. The mossums are all moving toward the river.
It's 16C out and the barometer is regaining lost ground. He puts on his boots and climbs toward the top of the hill, intent on scouting out a stretch of level ground on which to finally test the bicycle; while there would be a certain poetic comedy in plummeting down the hill into the river and collecting the Project's soil sample with his face, he prefers to leave that particular bit of life's comedy unwritten.
When he reaches the launch pipe, he finds the popim-weed where he threw the oatmeal stuff ripped to shreds. A lone mossum nearby is scored by deep gouges, black sticky pitch seeping through what's left of the moss. The idea of the nochers as dandelion fluff is torn apart; again, he has fallen into the trap of benign assumptions that are as alien to this world as he is.
He takes the time to roll the damaged mossum lower down the hill, to where he hopes it will be safer. From here he can see a low plateau, ideal for his bicycle adventure, but his momentum toward the experience has waned again. Maybe after lunch, he thinks. Or another day entirely.
As ever, he does his best not to think about how good he has always been at putting off things, and people too.
Walking back down the hill, neck and shoulders stiff from moving the heavy mossum, he hears and does not pay attention to what, at first, sounds merely like a dog barking in the distance. When the impossibility of that sinks in, he stops and stares across the vista ahead of him, eyes and ears straining for a source.
It comes again, and this time it is the flash of blue that catches his eye. A herd of feffalons on the meadow breaks and runs, as a thing lumbers out of the umbah-trees behind them. He has brought the new binoculars, and after a vertigo-inducing sweep of the land he catches the feffalons in passing, and then the creature giving chase.
It is dark red, about the size of a small pony, and looks like what you'd get if you crossed a six-legged Tyrannosaurus Rex with a poorly knit wool sock. The feffalons have quickly left it behind. He watches as it opens its three-part, ridged jaw to the sky and calls again.
The Project has not warned him about predators other than the nocher swarm. It picks up a mossum and crushes it in its huge jaws, scattering debris and black fluids everywhere, before lurching out of sight behind more umbah-trees.
He flees down the hill at breakneck speed and into the cottage. If he'd gone for his walk on the far side of the river, over there . . .
Determined not to be lost in what-if terrors, he picks up a piece of paper and does his best to draw the thing's likeness and put down as many notes about his brief observation as he can. On consideration, he names it "Red Rex." His handwriting is appalling.
He turns in his chair and looks around the room. His mossum is gone. Bending down, he finally spies it under the desk along the back wall. Coincidence, or some awareness of the predator? He feels an enormous empathy for his moss-covered rock.
"The truth is," he tells it, "a good part of me wants to crawl under there and hide with you."
Mothers of mine, I've had a bad dream—
a monster that came in the night!
All my delight, my magic and care
faltered, and then took flight.
I fear now to slumber
lest all the wonder
be turned thus from the light.
O Child of ours, the truth you must know—
the monsters are always here.
They walk our dreams, our waking days
whispering doubts in our ear.
The truth to hold tight,
in sun, or in night
is that love, ever, is nearer.
He does not see or hear the Red Rex again, although he never forgets it is out there, not while outside, not while staring stagnant and dull at the blank sheet in the Underwood, not while lying in his bed at night trying not to imagine the worst thing creeping up silently upon him. In the shed behind the bicycle and underneath a fishing net he finds an old saw, and takes to carrying it whenever he is out; still, he doesn't stray far from the house.
At last he decides he should send up a rocket, even though it's several days early. He packs up his drawings and a tube and the saw and hurries to the top of the hill, staring around him as if the Red Rex—or a pack of them!—could be anywhere. Poor sleep has left him jumpy, restless, and feeling dangerously dull-witted.
He scatters the nocher-bait on the barest ground he can find. Over the last few, warm days, most of the mossums have moved much farther down the hill toward the river. The damaged one hasn't changed position. He wonders if he should pour water on it, or beside it, or something.
One thing he is entirely certain of is that they are alive, although he cannot say what specifically that means.
After one last, fretful look around, he finishes prepping the rocket, presses it into the tube, and hurries down the hill toward the cottage without looking back. He does not want to see the nochers coming, not now while fear already has such a grip on him.
It's 26C out, even warmer inside. The mossum in his house is sitting on the floor where sunlight streams in from the window. It has all the appearance of nothing more than a rock, and although he has still not caught it in motion, he knows that as the day has progressed the bright rectangle of light has shifted across the floor, and the mossum has remained in the center of it.
He picks it up from its warm spot. "Time to earn your keep," he tells it, and sets it atop his papers so he can open the windows and get air moving through the house.
As he does, he can hear a faint crackling sound in the distance, like popcorn. He pauses, hand on the windowsill, and listens. The sound is getting closer, and then suddenly it's as if the ground is alive, squirming. There is a flash of white, a moving line, like the front edge of a wave.
Then it reaches the cottage and he sees.
The swelling buds on the popim-weed are bursting, laid open to snow-white interiors, as bundles of squiggly, springy pale green threads explode out in all directions, tangling in the air before falling back to earth and muting the brief beauty of the open buds in masses of zigzag confetti.
Popim-weed, he thinks. Turns out to be a good name.
The synchronicity of it, the surprise of it, is almost overwhelming, and he is startled to realize there are tears on his cheeks. Fear has cost him irreplaceable weeks of his time on this planet, this beautiful, unexpected place. He feels unworthy, unbelievably blessed.
He goes outside and sits on the porch with his feet dangling over the edge, watching as the wave of white sweeps down to the river, pauses, then in fits and starts appears on the other side and transforms the distant banks. The mossums clustered down by the water are now stark green motes against the backdrop.
Be an island of iron-cliff shores—
impervious to all incoming storms
unswayed by the movement of sea
built of immovable earth
no inhabitants to drain you,
no friend to speak out of turn
—that exists, but will not be.
Or be an island lost among thousands—
drenched by the fury of storms,
buried in fleeting wealth
bidden and unbidden,
cautious and carefree,
frightening and fantastical
—that dwells in an ocean of all things.
Mr. G-F, the next letter from the Project reads. Your "Red Rex" (Project Nomenclature likes the name and would like to adopt it for official use, if you do not object) is a predator that is normally found in much hotter climes, where it has both more prey and more competition. Our theory is that the most recent storm somehow brought it to your island.
As you guessed, it is extremely dangerous. If you wish us to extricate you, please notify us. We also have dispatched extra drones to the airspace above the island but have been unable to locate it. There is always the possibility it has gone back to where it came from—
I could live with that, he thinks.
—but more likely it has burrowed in somewhere and will emerge again when hungry. If we are able to locate the Red Rex we will keep you informed. In the meantime, please exercise all caution. Project Safety recommends you do not leave the cottage except for necessary—and short—outings until this is resolved.
The recommendation is sound, and up until the popim-weed explosion, exactly in line with his own miserable intentions. Now, though . . .
He has been a coward—here, and before here—and he cannot bear to reckon what it has cost him. There is no more running away. He takes the saw, a notebook and pen, and goes to get the bicycle out of the shed.
Two meters and a handspan, twice over
I measure the circumference of my world
with spoke and rim, moving circles,
and eyes caught wide.
Ten poems I have written for the mossy stones
my only audience, adrift in my fields,
that illuminate my interior landscape
in obstinate incomprehension.
A thousand words written on endless pages,
set down with awful integrity and focus
will never out-measure the silence,
where I should have said I loved you.
Three months have carried Ekye fully into its summer. He is standing in the river in bare feet, eyes closed, enjoying the coolness of the slow-moving water. There's a vial in his hand—destined for yet another silt sample—but so far he's content to let the currents swirl around him, feel the sun hot on his back, half oblivious to everything except the raw feed of his other senses.
The banks and river itself are cluttered with mossums, the hills above nearly bare of them now. He has come to think of them as a slow-moving herd; the conception of them as stones, as inanimate objects, has been thoroughly dispelled and forgotten, and in its place he finds them amiable companions: silent, self-sufficient, present in the entirely self-contained way of sleeping cats. He still has not managed, despite great effort, to see them in motion.
So it is an enormous shock when a mid-sized mossum tumbles down the bank to bump against his leg. Opening his eyes, he stares down at it, then slowly moves his leg away. It remains where it is, so he takes one more step back, and another mossum bumps him from the other side.
"What?" he asks them, then jumps as an enormous mossum upstream drops into the river with a loud splash.
The banks are hard to see past where the big mossum fell, the water and shore occluded by curving, reedy plants. They are thrashing back and forth now, and for a moment he wonders if this is some spectacular natural phenomenon like the budding of the popim-weed. But no. Something large is moving up the bank, through the reeds, straight toward him.
He scrambles out of the river and grabs his saw from the bank just as the Red Rex breaks cover and lurches toward him. The water slows it down, and he is able to swing the saw in a wide arc, its rusted but still formidable teeth tearing a ragged line along its face. It lets out a high-pitched bark and throws itself up the far bank and half way up the slope before it slows, turns, and stands there regarding him.
He holds the bow-shaped handle of the saw in both hands in front of him, blade out. The adrenalin in his system is a rage he's never felt before, his blood become magma, and he wants to yell at the Red Rex, scream back at it a lifetime of noise kept mute under passivity and self-doubt.
The Red Rex watches as he backs away. It seems more gaunt, unraveled, than in the spring, but he knows too well the terrible pull of desperation and will not underestimate it. At last, perhaps sensing he is out of reach, the Red Rex stretches its legs one by one, then turns and scuttles away.
He stares after it until it is gone from sight. Somewhere, he dropped his vial. It doesn't matter.
The mossums warned him.
Physically shaking, it is that revelation, more even than the danger, that overwhelms him. At the porch steps he turns, seeing the mossums again with new eyes, through the blur of tears of wonder and fear. Then his stomach lurches viciously; on the far hillside, the Red Rex has returned.
He runs inside and slams the door, throwing a lock he never imagined had any purpose. Outside, the Red Rex howls, a terrible mocking sound, and he goes to the window and stares out, hands gripping the sill until his knuckles are white.
It lopes down the hillside again toward the river, picks up a mossum in its jaws and devours it.
"No," he says, not realizing he has spoken out loud until his own voice startles him.
He abandons the window, anger making him careen around the room looking for anything he can use. He will not, cannot, just watch; too much of his life has been wasted in inaction, watching fate plunder his life unchallenged.
Grabbing his saw, he runs outside and pulls the fishing net out of the shed. It should be enough to entangle the Red Rex, but not hold it indefinitely. And then what? The idea of killing it is abhorrent, even under such circumstances. If only he had some way to drive it off the island, back where it came . . .
He drops the net on the porch and goes back into the house. From the cupboard he pulls a dozen of the red rocket tubes, dumping their contents on the floor. He scoops up the inactive electronic control cylinders and the roll of sticky-tape from his desk.
On the porch, he watches the Red Rex as he wraps the mechanisms with tape and strings them as quickly as he can in the net. When done, he hauls out the bicycle. There are now several broken mounds of crushed and gutted mossums around the Red Rex, and the rest have moved away from it, forming clusters with the smallest mossums in their center.
He straddles the bicycle, leaning it so he still has one foot on the ground, and balances the saw atop the handlebars. He takes his pen out of his pocket and jabs it into the tiny hole in the base of one of the rocket cylinders taped to the net. It lights up, trying to connect to and launch a rocket that isn't there. One by one, he activates the rest and then drapes the net over his shoulder, wrapping his hands around both handlebar and saw handle together. Barely has he begun to roll when he hears the distant humming of the nochers over the rumble of his tires down the path.
Picking up speed, he aims for the bridge. The Red Rex has stood. If it is his increasing speed or memories of the saw that finally sinks in, he doesn't know, but it turns and runs.
He hits the bridge moving terrifyingly fast. What momentum he loses up the far shore isn't enough to give the Red Rex a lead, and by the time he crests the hill he is almost on top of it.
It stops and turns, its jaws opening wide. He expected this, has become nimble on the bike over the last few weeks, and he swerves, throwing the net as he passes. The creature lunges, catching the net nearly full in the face. Immediately it begins to roll and snap and snarl, tangling itself further.
He keeps going. He can hear the nochers coming, like an approaching storm, like the fury he released from inside himself when the net left his hands.
He crests the last hill before the long slow slope down to cliffs and sea. With a terrible whining cry, the Red Rex passes, two legs still tangled in the net, half-lost in the buzzing cloud of white fluff enveloping and chasing it. Tufts of dark red mix with the nochers as they pick it apart.
Remembering the damage to the mossum at the launch site, he feels sick.
The Red Rex plunges into the surf. It is only by the cloud of nochers still trying to follow that he can mark its progress out into deeper waters. When the nochers dissipate, he doesn't know if it's because the electronics have succumbed to the salt water, or the Red Rex has succumbed to the sea, but somehow he knows—is absolutely certain—that it will not return.
It is a long ride back to the cottage, and even though the sun is still well above the horizon, he climbs into his bed and pulls the blankets up until he feels as if he is drowning in them. He does not toss and turn, does not think of home, does not think of the dead, does not sleep.
For once, he acted. He was not the observer of life, but one of the living.
When the first tentative light kisses his window, he gives up and gets out of bed, padding in his bare feet across the still-dark floor in the gray monotones of first dawn into the living room.
There is a sound, familiar and unexpected, and he jumps, staring at the Underwood. The small mossum he'd left on his papers overnight is still there, and in the waxing light he sees, just barely, the small tendrils that disappear back into its rounded shape.
The keys are jammed.
sadkl cmeiopwru hh mcvx
He sets the mossum down on the floor near the water saucer. Going to the window, he looks out at the alien landscape that has become suddenly, utterly home. The cottage is surrounded by a ring of mossums in the rising light. Startled, he realizes that, for the first time in his life—the sole human being on an entire planet—he also does not feel alone.
Full morning brings a parachute from the Project.
Our drones detected the Red Rex attack at the river as it began, but we were unable to put a craft out to reach you before you had already resolved the situation, the letter says. It was never the intention of the Project to put you in danger. We have no explanation for the mass movement of mossums to the cottage. Limited as we are by both philosophy and circumstance to non-invasive, non-technological methods, we had hoped that a creative, intuitive person might be able to discern the nature of the mossums in a way we have not. Whether or not you choose to terminate our agreement and leave Ekye, we would greatly appreciate any insights you are willing to share with us.
He still has a few rockets left, but no sense of urgency. He makes himself a cup of tea and sits at the typewriter, feeling the breezes off the ocean sweeping in through the window and around him before he sets to composing a reply.
I am fine here, Davin writes. The nature of the mossums is: they are both stone and life, ghost and muse, solitude and company, unknowable and dear. In short: they are as we: poems.
He rolls that up and sticks it in the red tube. Taking another sip of tea, he looks down at the mossum on the floor where it has found a first, thin streak of daylight.
"You should see my early drafts," he tells it, then picks up a fresh piece of paper to begin.
Copyright © 2016. Ten Poems For The Mossums, One For The Man by Suzanne Palmer
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It's pretty simple. Tickets go on sale tomorrow for developers who wish to attend the WWDC (Worldwide Developer's Conference), where per usual, Apple's annual event will take place June 10 through June 14, in San Francisco. And as usual, the objective will be to bring us the latest news about iOS and OS X, as well as any hardware that Apple might have planned.
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Community detection in social networks varying with time is a common yet challenging problem whereby efficient visualization of evolving relationships and implicit hierarchical structure are important task. The main contribution of this paper is towards establishing a framework to analyze such social networks. The proposed framework is based on dynamic graph discretization and graph clustering.The framework allows detection of major structural changes over time, identifies events analyzing temporal dimension and reveals command hierarchies in social networks.We use the Catalano/Vidro dataset for empirical evaluation and observe that our framework provides a satisfactory assessment of the social and hierarchical structure present in the dataset.
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Talented design input required to build a unique, very simple and clean professional social media professional membership website for woman with emphasis on profiles, groups, networking, events, articles and live feeds. See detailed brief attached entitled Detailed Brief for Woman's Professional Network Site.